


Every Exquisite Thing

by oriolevent



Series: Mortal Coil 'Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Family Feels, Future Fic, Good Peter, Immortality, Italy, Kid Fic, M/M, More tags to be added, Non-Human Stiles, Original Character(s), Secrets, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriolevent/pseuds/oriolevent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Stiles are dealing pretty well with the whole ride-or-die, together-for-eternity, forever-young thing. Unfortunately, the rest of the world is having a somewhat harder time. </p><p>(Thank god they have each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d highly suggest going and reading the first part of this series before this, so the context makes sense. This builds off the one-shot, and is going to have multiple chapters. 
> 
> Thanks to those that were interested in seeing more of this verse - especially RebaK1tten for the idea about Derek in this one! 
> 
> Title is from The Picture of Dorian Gray: “Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.” My manifesto for this 'verse, I guess.

“Quanto sono dolci queste arance?” Stiles asked the girl behind the fruit stand. His Italian wasn’t so bad, much better than it had been when they first moved to Rome. But the look he received from the girl told him well enough that his accent was still atrocious, even after all these years. He blamed Peter and their friends who still spoke English most of the time. 

 

Before he left the market he took a photo for his Instagram, cropping it and posting as he walked home. The doorman greeted him as he climbed up the steps, and pressed the button for the elevator for him. 

 

Peter was still at home, right where Stiles left him. “How’s the masterpiece coming?” he asked, taking the bag of produce into the kitchen before wandering out to the living room.

 

The balcony door was open, and the curtains were fluttering in the breeze around Peter, who sat picturesquely on a chaise with a small easel beside him. In one hand he had a paintbrush, in the other, a glass of wine. “Slowly but surely,” he answered, eyes trained on the canvas. 

 

Stiles walked around the chaise to examine it. “Wow. It looks like shit,” he leaned down to kiss Peter on the top of his head before going back to put away the groceries. “I’ll be glad when this fad of yours is over, you’ve made a mess in the sink with your paints again.”

 

“Ah, but just think of it, Stiles,” Peter gestured with his paintbrush, “what could be more ideal than this? I feel I’m finally channeling Da Vinci, and you’re my Salaì.”

 

“What an honour,” Stiles deadpanned. His laptop was still on the dining room table where he had left it, and he brought it over to the couch near Peter. 

 

While Stiles had been adamantly keeping up with the modern world and its technological advances, Peter seemed thrilled to retreat further into the past as they whiled the years away together. It had been over a decade since they left California, and another seven beyond that since they had realized their mutual immortal situations. Though Peter had celebrated his sixtieth birthday the year previous, he didn’t look a day over thirty-six — a fact he was terribly proud of, and Stiles considered this a contributing factor to his ever-growing obsession with aesthetics. That, and again, all the vampires he hung out with. 

 

“Have you given any more thought to the invitation?” Stiles asked, opening his emails. There were a few unread, one from a werewolf pack in Bulgaria inviting them back for another visit, and another from a French witch who was planning a visit to Rome, and had been recommended Stiles as a supernatural tour guide. It was just something he enjoyed doing to pass the time, but Peter had been encouraging him to make a real business out of it. 

 

The invitation they had received was from Derek, asking them both to return back to Beacon Hills. His daughters were graduating high school, and this apparently necessitated a family reunion. “I don’t know,” Peter sighed. He knocked back his glass of wine before putting it aside on a small table he seemed to have arranged just for the purpose of holding his drink. “It’s the same week as the music festival in Villa Ada park, I know you would hate to miss it.”

 

“I think we’d need a better excuse to decline than simply wanting to eat kebabs in front of a bandstand,” Stiles said, finding the email Derek had sent him. It was quite strongly worded. 

 

“Ah, yes. You know, I blame myself for his over-enthusiastic parenting,” Peter mused as he added a few brushstrokes to his painting. “I should have been the strong male figure in his life, growing up. But he was so moody I could hardly tolerate him after puberty.”

 

Stiles snorted. “I know that’s a damned dirty lie, you’ve told me about that road trip you both took when he turned fifteen.”

 

Peter frowned. “Yes, well, it didn’t stop him from bringing a hunter home to roost the next year, did it?” 

 

Stiles paused typing his reply to the witch’s email. “I know you’re anxious about the idea of going back, but is that really necessary?” He was a firm believer in time healing most wounds, and it had proven mostly true for Peter, as for himself. But occasionally Peter would slip back in to disparaging his nephew, though Stiles knew he hardly meant it. The overly sentimental Christmas gifts he spent weeks picking out each year testified to that. 

 

Peter put his palette aside and stood up to stretch before going to mix more paints. “Of course you’re right, dear. Ancient history. But you can’t tell me you’re looking forward to confronting everyone after all these years.”

 

Before they had left Beacon Hills, and a couple of years after they announced they were a couple, they had come clean to everyone about the whole undying situation. It had been difficult for the pack to digest, to say the least. But when confronted with the evidence — namely, Stiles still looking like he was underage — they had begrudgingly accepted the truth. But accepting it was one thing, and seeing them in the youthful flesh after so long would be entirely another. 

 

“They know what to expect,” Stiles reasoned, going to investigate what flights were available. “I mean, even my dad follows my Instagram, they’ve seen photos of us recently. And it really has been—“ He halted when he looked up and saw Peter as he stood facing the counter. “Peter.”

 

“Hm?” he replied, not turning around. 

 

“What are you wearing.”

 

Peter looked down at himself, then turned around. “Oh, this? What do you think?” He had on a billowing white blouse, so ridiculous that Stiles had confused it for a sheet at first. He had mistakenly thought that Peter had finally decided to stop splattering paint on his clothes (“This is what an artist looks like, Stiles”) and taken protective measures. He was very wrong. 

 

“Where…did that come from,” Stiles asked carefully, rubbing his temples. 

 

“Bathory made it. She gifted it to me after I complimented the one she made for George.” He turned back to mixing his paints, ignoring Stiles’ deep sigh. “It’s very Renaissance, isn’t it?”

 

Stiles had never typed so fast in his life as he did in replying to Derek’s email, enthusiastically agreeing to attend the girls’ graduation. “We’re going,” he declared, not looking up as Peter turned to protest. “And you’re not bringing that damned shirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s my thinking. With nothing but time at his disposal, Peter must surely only become more ridiculous. His transformation into an expat aesthete makes absolute sense to me. 
> 
> Yes, George is George Byron. As we all know, all prolific writers eventually become European vampires.
> 
> Come tell me on [tumblr](http://oriolevent.tumblr.com) what I should do with this ridiculous AU.


	2. The Bird Feeder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually finished writing this entire fic, and will post a chapter a day until it's done. They're all approx. 1000+ words, so while they may be on the shorter side of things, I hope that you enjoy reading them in relative succession. 
> 
> It ended up getting a lot more real than I expected, but I hope you all enjoy it!!!

The woman behind the car rental desk at the Los Angeles airport was giving Stiles an assessing look. “The second driver has to be over twenty-five,” she announced, turning back to Peter. “So you’re the only one who’s allowed to drive it, okay?”

 

“That’s fine,” Peter put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, cutting him off before he could start protesting. He finished the paperwork and took the keys, leading them both out to the parking garage. 

 

“This is why I like Europe,” Stiles complained, dragging his suitcase behind him. “They let minors do basically everything. Nobody gives a shit how old I am.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and tossed him the keys. “Yes, your youth and beauty are such hardships. Don’t crash the car.”

 

They pulled out to the highway in a new model Chevrolet Camaro. “Remember the old one of these Derek had?” Stiles reminisced, nearly cutting someone off. “It was way less cool than this. Nothing was automated at all in it.”

 

“I’m sure he misses those days,” Peter said, changing the time on his watch. 

 

Stiles was obviously excited to be in California again, fidgeting constantly in his seat. “If I see him driving around town in that minivan Scott told me about, I’m literally going to die happy. I didn’t let him send me any photos because there’s no way the reality could be as amazing as I imagine.”

 

“Another attempt at recreating his own childhood for his children,” Peter sniffed dismissively. “They had a minivan growing up, for all the kids. You know they don’t make them anymore, I have no idea where he scrounged it up.”

 

“I would have been so disappointed if he was a cool dad,” Stiles smiled. 

 

There was a new sign at the city limits, fresh paint welcoming them in to Beacon Hills. Not much else seemed to have changed, though. They passed the high school, spying the lacrosse team practicing out in the summer sun. The nostalgia started to hit Stiles hard, and he gripped the steering wheel as his excitement changed to anxiousness. Peter put a hand on his knee.

 

The forest around the preserve was bright and green, dappled with the afternoon sun. It hardly looked like the set of a horror film as it sometimes appeared in their memories. They took the long road into the woods, to where Derek’s house stood overtop the foundation of the old Hale home. 

 

It looked as if it had been there for decades, already. The gardens out front were full and well-maintained, and a couple of bicycles were laying on the lawn. “Uncanny valley,” Peter muttered as he climbed out of the car. 

 

They went up the steps to the house and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, though they waited a couple of minutes. “Maybe they’re out?” Stiles shrugged, but Peter turned his head, hearing something. 

 

A moment later, Derek rounded the corner of the house, holding a goddamned bird feeder. “Hey!” he exclaimed, apparently surprised to see them. “I thought you weren’t due until this evening!”

 

He was all smiles, which was probably the most distracting thing about him now. Secondary were the grey streaks at his temples, and the wrinkles made bolder by the beaming expression. But they had both seen photos of him and his family, and it was less shocking than it might have been otherwise. “Damn,” Stiles nudged Peter, “he’s still super hot. He’s like a DILF. Don’t give me that look,” he said as Peter made a somewhat pained expression. 

 

Derek put the bird feeder on the porch before giving them each a hug. “Well,” he backed up, taking them both in. “Look at you.”

 

There was a pause, and a phone started ringing. “Oh, shit,” Stiles flailed to find which pocket he had put it in. Adam Levine’s song _Animals_ was blaring from the speaker. “I have to take this. Sorry, shitty reunion — but you two! Reconnect! Frolic, whatever!” He dashed back to the car and climbed inside before answering the call.

 

Peter rolled his eyes, knowing the call wouldn’t take all that long. “How are you, nephew? Thriving in your domestic sphere, I see?”

 

Derek chuckled, leaning on the porch railing. “Can’t complain. Braeden and the girls are just out picking up supplies for the weekend, we were going to barbecue tonight.” He looked over at where the barbecue sat on patio stones beside the deck. Peter looked too.

 

He would never admit it, but it was only in that moment that he truly realized that Derek was…an adult. He was a fully grown adult human (well, werewolf), and somebody’s father, and he owned a house and a barbecue and a bird feeder, and was standing on a porch wearing khakis. 

 

Peter swallowed and glanced back to Stiles, still in the car. He gave Peter a little wave in encouragement. 

 

“That sounds pleasant,” he replied calmly. 

 

“Scott will come over, if you’re okay with that,” Derek continued on. “I think you’ll be surprised to hear how calm things are around here, actually. Nothing like the Beacon Hills you’d remember.”

 

This was not actually news to Peter, but he treated it as if it were. “Must be nice for you and your pack,” he offered. 

 

Derek nodded absently, looking over as they heard Stiles start the car engine. “He’s leaving already?” 

 

“He mentioned picking up his father. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Peter watched him drive off, hoping it was soon indeed. 

 

Derek’s hospitality, though different from the varieties they had been enjoying abroad, was unfaltering. He showed Peter to a guest room on the third floor with a sprawling view of the preserve, and by the time the rest of Derek’s family returned home, they were sitting outside drinking beers companionably. 

 

“Uncle Peter!” one of the girls called out. They were identical twins and Peter had no chance of telling them apart until their personalities made it clear. Obviously, this one was Talia. 

 

Peter stood up to receive yet another hug. He began to suspect this would be a common occurrence today. “Hey, kid,” he greeted her, ruffling her hair. It had been over a decade since he had done it, but she seemed to recall the gesture and swatted his hand away with a laugh. 

 

Her sister had gone straight to unloading bags from the car, instead of coming to see him. Peter hardly minded, but Derek looked ruffled. “Hello, Jane,” Peter called over.

 

“Hello, Peter,” she replied, walking past with a heavy armload of groceries. She was a werewolf, and it wouldn’t have troubled her to pause even with her arms full. Peter took it to be a deliberately cold greeting, and glanced at the girl’s father for explanation.

 

Derek sighed. “Sorry, actually — she goes by Laura now, I didn’t really get a chance to tell you.”

 

Peter looked into the house where she had gone. As far as he knew, she had always used her middle name, instead of that of the aunt she never met. “It’s a better name,” was all he said.

 

The twins couldn’t have been more different from one another. Talia was outgoing, musical, and human, while Jane — or rather, Laura, was every bit the surly werewolf her father had been. But at eighteen years old, it was to be expected, at least. 

 

Peter had immediately put a stop to being called “great-uncle” the first time he heard the words. He was resigned to being a perpetual uncle, regarded as such by generations of Derek’s offspring, no doubt. It was, at the very least, a role he knew how to fill well. “Braeden, nice to see you,” he said as she came after the girls. 

 

“Peter,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. She glanced around the yard. “Is Stiles not with you?”

 

“He’ll be back any minute,” Derek assured her. They quickly fell into some domestic sort of conversation that Peter felt entirely excluded from, and seized the opportunity to excuse himself up to his room. 

 

They had packed for several weeks, on Stiles’ suggestion. There was apparently little point in travelling halfway across the world only for a brief weekend stay. Stiles had a full agenda of people to see while he was home, and intended to make the most of his time. Peter, on the other hand, had now already seen everyone he had any inclination to see. Cora was living on the east coast, and they wouldn’t be seeing her. Malia had broken off communication with him long ago. Derek and his brood were it. 

 

He sat on the edge of his bed and typed out a text to Stiles. _Come back soon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally made some feels happen that I absolutely did not expect. But not to worry. Spoiler: Stiles does come back soon. Just in time for dinner. Also, give me domestic!Derek forever. I always end up pairing him with Braeden, but I just think she's so cool. I can't help it.
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!!


	3. The Salad

Peter was feeling so awkward and out of place, tasked with washing a mountain of lettuce for a salad, that when Scott McCall walked through the door he was actually relieved to see him. 

 

Scott looked less relieved to see Peter. “How was the flight,” he asked casually, walking past him to put a case of beer on the kitchen counter. Derek immediately whisked it away into the fridge, leaving Scott with nothing else to do but face Peter. 

 

“Uneventful. Thank you for inviting us, by the way,” he added. He could, at the very least, stand on some werewolf ceremony in light of the circumstances.

 

Scott didn’t seem to follow. “Uh, yeah. It’s really Derek’s deal, I didn’t have much to do with it.”

 

Peter blinked at him. There was something unexpectedly weary about him. “You’re still the alpha, are you not?”

 

That seemed to snap Scott out of it, a little. “Of course,” he flashed his eyes, as if expecting some sort of challenge. Peter let it lie, going back to his washing.

 

Thankfully, only a few minutes later he heard the rental car pull back up to the house. Peter hurried outside to see Stiles rushing around the front of the vehicle to give his father a hand climbing out. “I’m fine,” the retired sheriff batted him away, though he took his time in getting up to the house.

 

Peter received his third unprecedented hug of the day. “Good to see you, son,” John told him, slapping him on the back. 

 

When he and Stiles had first gotten together, and the sheriff had first called him son, Peter had balked, reminding him that he was only a few years younger than the man. Now, it appeared quite fitting on the outside. Peter made no comment on it. “Scott’s here,” he told Stiles, though he was sure he had already surmised that. John made his way inside before Peter added, “He’s…off.”

 

Stiles raised an eyebrow, but seemed to understand. His online conversations with Scott had remained a constant and steady vehicle for their friendship. He had never minded much that Scott never wanted to video chat. But he had been preparing the whole way there for this meeting, and Peter could tell he was nervous. 

 

“He’s just pissed about mom taking Cady,” a voice came from the side of the house. They both turned to see a teenage boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen at most. 

 

“Hey, Evan,” Stiles recognized him from photos. He had only been a toddler when he and Peter left, after all. “Why’d she do that?”

 

The kid shrugged. “I dunno. Dad says its fox stuff. Prob’ly why she left me with _him._ ” He rolled his eyes, their colour briefly changing to beta gold. He probably didn’t have it quite under control yet, Peter figured. 

 

“Don’t say that, man, your dad is cool,” Stiles tried to tell him, but Evan seemed uninterested in hearing about it, disappearing around the house again. Stiles sighed, turning to put his head on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t even say it,” he muttered.

 

Peter put his arms around him, drawing him in close. “Say what? That I could be hand feeding you grapes beside the Tiber right now? Or that we could be literally anywhere else? I would never.”

 

Eventually they could put it off no longer and returned inside. The room went silent as they stepped into the kitchen, where the adults were all gathered. “Oh, good,” Stiles said cheerfully, going to open the fridge and get a drink, “I was worried this might be weird.”

 

“It’s really weird,” Braeden confirmed, before picking up the barbecue tongs off the table and going outside to check on the grill. 

 

Everyone seemed to watch Stiles and Scott, then. Stiles looked anxiously at his old best friend, while the other had taken up tossing the salad until the last possible minute, and he could put it off no longer. 

 

He turned and looked at Stiles.

 

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, a half-smile on his face until he saw Scott’s expression break. He looked close enough to tears that Stiles wasted no time in going over to him. “Dude, it’s okay. Come on,” he ushered him out of the kitchen with an apologetic glance at the others. 

 

“Well, Derek, I think that’s my cue to go say hello to your television. Call me when dinner’s ready,” John shuffled out as well, nodding at Peter as he went by. 

 

Somewhere in the house, angsty rock music was playing.

 

“Welcome to Beacon Hills,” Derek said sardonically, tossing Peter another beer. 

 

It hardly took any prying on Peter’s part to get Derek to open up about what was going on. They went out into the woods for a quick walk before dinner, which was on hold until Stiles and Scott emerged from wherever they had gone. “Scott and Kira separated about a year and a half ago,” Derek explained. They were following a trail through the trees that had new bark mulch on the ground. “He was having a hard time with everything. I’m sure you can guess what I mean.”

 

It was unlike Derek to be cryptic, so Peter presumed he actually thought he would understand. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“Well, she’s a kitsune. Same deal as Stiles, I guess. Though she’s got a human father, that’s why she at least doesn’t look like a teenager — but Scott seemed to get caught up in the idea of everyone eventually leaving him, and, well,” Derek shrugged. “It kind of happened.”

 

“A self-fulfilling prophecy,” Peter surmised. “But he still has you, and presumably other betas.”

 

“Oh, sure,” Derek acknowledged easily. “I’m not going anywhere. But the whole pack thing, that doesn’t matter so much these days.”

 

Peter nearly halted in his tracks. He tried to believe what he had just heard, but failed. “Doesn’t matter,” he repeated. 

 

Derek glanced back at him, where he had fallen behind on the trail. “It’s not a big deal,” he insisted, but Peter refused to even start to entertain the notion. “There haven’t been any threats to deal with in years. I told you, things are pretty good around here. Chris Argent even moved back, not long after you left. Mostly keeps to himself, though.”

 

“So Scott has just let his pack fall apart because things were peaceful,” Peter frowned, “and because he felt left out. What an outstanding werewolf, with outstanding instincts I created.”

 

Derek gave him a look before leading them back to the house. “You got a pack?” he asked over his shoulder. 

 

“Obviously,” Peter answered. They heard Stiles’ voice, and saw everyone — teenagers included — finally gathered in the backyard for dinner. 

 

No more was said about packs or Scott’s woes, Stiles deciding to regale everyone with tales from abroad in between hamburgers. They were all politely entertained, asking questions and encouraging him on when it seemed appropriate. 

 

Peter sat near Talia, who listened to Stiles with rapt attention. Peter wondered if it was because of what he was saying (describing a misadventure where he had been stuck in the crypts underneath Rome after getting drunk, of all things) or the fact that he looked nearly her age, and yet had apparently done so many things. It would have made him terribly envious, at her age, but he had always been eager to get out of this town, even back then. 

 

“Have you been accepted to any colleges?” he asked her after a while, attempting to divert her attention to himself. 

 

“A couple,” she nodded, pausing to disassemble a second hamburger and putting ketchup on it. “I’m going to do Environmental Science and Engineering over at Caltech.”

 

Peter was actually pretty impressed. “That’s wonderful,” he told her, appreciative of how focused she appeared. “It’s not so far from home, are you going to move to Pasadena?”

 

“Yeah. I think it would be cool,” she glanced at the others to see if they were listening. “You know, living with just humans. But Laura’s totally running away,” she said quickly, distracting from her last statement, “she’s going to Chapel Hill to live with Aunt Cora, doing…some ology, or something.”

 

“Sociology,” Laura corrected her from across the patio, proving she had been listening. 

 

Peter was quite proud of how bright they both were, though for once he wouldn’t attempt to take any credit for it. It was probably their mother’s influence that made them so driven, as he could imagine Derek encouraging them to take time off before leaving home. Though his nephew appeared to have a concerning lack of any concept of the importance of pack these days. 

 

He watched Stiles artfully draw everyone into his conversation, including Scott, though he seemed inclined to float towards the outside of the group to only comment on whatever game his son was playing on some handheld device. John didn’t say much, but kept his eyes on Stiles nearly the whole time, as if afraid he might blink and the boy in front of him would disappear.

 

Everyone seemed relieved when the time came for the visitors to return home.

 

Scott offered to drive John, and after a quick goodbye and making of tentative plans, he coaxed Evan into the car and left. Peter helped Derek clean up, and attempted to spend some time with Laura and Talia again, but found they were too distracted by their technology. Derek chided them a little, but Peter was reminded of something Stiles had once said, about the usefulness of avoiding conversations with strangers in public by wearing headphones. He let them be and returned upstairs to find Stiles in their room.

 

He was sitting on the bed, looking down at his phone, though the screen was off. As Peter closed the door behind him, Stiles looked up, and their eyes met, one thought clear between them. 

 

“We fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do like Scott and Kira together, I’m not a fan of high school relationships lasting forever. I know it can happen, but it usually doesn’t. So here’s some compromise. I haven't tagged this as Scott/Kira for this reason.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, Scott and Stiles would be about 42-43 at this point. I imagine Peter is around 18-19 years older than Stiles. So when Stiles was in high school (as per the show), Peter was like, 35-36. Which is the age he got stuck at. Wow, that math actually worked out better than I expected. 
> 
> What did Peter and Stiles fuck up, exactly? Guess we’ll have to wait and see.


	4. The Mailbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm posting two chapters in one day because this one is shorter and I didn't want to leave everyone feeling sad again.

Stiles was lying face-down on the bed in Derek’s guest room. It was a ridiculously soft duvet and he was inclined to never get up. 

 

“How were we supposed to know?” Peter reasoned, though he felt just about as put out as Stiles looked. “It seemed entirely reasonable that we would be doing them a favour by keeping the town safe. Nobody else died, after all.”

 

“They might as well have,” came Stiles’ muffled reply. “They’re so sad and boring, Peter. Scott’s literally got an anxiety disorder. That was always my thing. He’s supposed to be the stupidly optimistic one who rallies everyone’s spirits.”

 

Stiles had given him the summary of his conversation with Scott, though it was much the same as what Derek had shared with him. Kira had been staying in Beacon Hills despite their separation until recently, when she took their daughter — also a kitsune — and went to stay with her mother in Japan. Stiles’ reappearance seemed to be Scott’s tipping point. Derek told them he got a text from John that Scott was staying at his and Melissa’s house that night. 

 

“I don’t think you can blame Scott, exactly,” Peter said, unpacking their things into the empty wardrobe. Stiles had allowed him to bring a small box of painting supplies, but the urge to pursue that particular hobby had departed the instant he had crossed the county line. 

 

“I thought blaming Scott was one of your favourite hobbies,” Stiles retorted.

 

It was a fair point, but Peter was attempting to be serious. “We can’t particularly blame anyone. Kitsune are the way they are, neither you nor Kira can help that. Sometimes life just ends up differently than you expect.” He closed the wardrobe and tucked the empty suitcases out of the way under the bed. “I’m sure I don’t need to be telling you that.”

 

Stiles didn’t reply, so Peter crawled up the bed to lay alongside him. He tucked in against Stiles’ neck, breathing in and out slowly against his skin. Eventually both their heartbeats slowed to a similar beat, and Peter felt better than he did earlier. 

 

Stiles rolled over to face him. “You won’t believe how many scars Chris Argent has now,” he changed the subject, knowing it would appeal to Peter’s vanity to hear it. “I mean, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s still kicking ass these days, knowing his genes — but he looked like he’d been through some shit.”

 

Peter had known from the ringtone on Stiles’ phone that Chris had called just as they arrived at Derek’s house. They had almost been inclined to go to Argent’s house first, but thought it might have been troublesome if anyone caught a scent of him on them. “Must have been a quick meeting,” he surmised, “or else a quick reunion with your father. You weren’t gone all that long.”

 

“Definitely not a quick reunion,” Stiles grimaced. He still hadn’t seen Melissa, since she had been working a shift at the hospital — she had refused to completely retire and still went in, occasionally. But he was certain he would have to repeat the entire painstaking process of the day again when he ran into her. “I just checked in with him, he had some payroll forms for us to sign that he hadn’t shipped to Rome yet, so I took care of it. And he had the gun and other stuff I asked for all ready.”

 

“In the car?”

 

“Yeah, the trunk.” Stiles rested his head on Peter’s arm, reaching out and stroking his hair a little. “How are we ever going to fix this?”

 

Peter just closed his eyes. “It may not be our problem to fix,” he said, considering drifting off to sleep. But he could always tell how Stiles was feeling. “However, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he added. 

 

He did fall asleep, then. Stiles stayed awake much longer, watching Peter and thinking. 

 

The following day, Peter was invited to accompany Derek, Braeden and the girls to shop for graduation dresses. He politely declined, informing them that he and Stiles had plans to visit old haunts around town. Derek gave him a key to the house so they could come and go as they liked. 

 

Stiles took them directly to Chris Argent’s house. It was on the outskirts of town, in a neighbourhood where a single senior gentleman could reasonably be expected to settle down. There was a wooden mailbox at the end of the driveway that appeared distinctly homemade. “He does woodworking now?” Peter asked, spotting it as they parked in the driveway.

 

“I didn’t ask,” Stiles also looked at the mailbox as if seeing it for the first time. “Yikes, though.”

 

The door opened automatically for them as they stepped up to it. “So this is where all our money goes,” Peter said, observing the automation gears when they were inside. “Thank god he’s not spending it on anything ridiculous.”

 

“Would’ve shot you full of wolfsbane, if Stiles hadn’t sent me your specs when I installed it,” Chris said, coming out to the entranceway and wiping his hands on a rag. Stiles was right, he did have an awful lot of scars — he looked like a retired lion tamer. “Can’t be too careful around here.”

 

“And here I’d been told how safe and quiet the town was,” Peter said. “How disappointing.”

 

Chris barked out a laugh. “Quiet? I’ve seen quiet, and this isn’t it. My house in France was quiet. Still is, from what I hear, not that I get many vacation days to go see it.”

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles cheerfully told him, going and making himself comfortable on a couch in the living room. Peter saw a thin layer of dust on the coffee table. It appeared Chris didn’t entertain much. “You were bored, we all know it. Couldn’t have bribed you otherwise.”

 

Chris didn’t respond to that. He took up a seat on an adjacent chair, while Peter sat beside Stiles. “So, what do you want,” Chris asked, cracking his shoulders noisily. “Status report? Intel? Gotta be some reason you came all this way yourselves.”

 

“It genuinely was to see our nieces’ graduation,” Stiles told him. Peter felt a silly puff of delight when he said _our_. “Life can’t be all business, no pleasure, you know. Well, you probably don’t know.”

 

Chris looked grim. “I take what I do seriously.”

 

“And we totally appreciate it. But maybe you could, I don’t know, take a day off?” Stiles leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’ll even give you a paid holiday — go lay on the beach or something. Let one little baddie slip through the cracks, then it’s back to business the next day.”

 

It didn’t appear that Chris was following. “You want me to get my hunters to let something through to the town,” he said slowly.

 

“This is your plan?” Peter asked Stiles. It wasn’t the worst idea, perhaps. But it seemed counterintuitive to the elaborate defences they had established around the town and its inhabitants. 

 

“Just, like, one rogue omega,” Stiles reasoned, looking between them. “Maybe something a bit scarier. A yeti, or something. I don’t know.”

 

“A yeti,” Chris repeated. He looked at Peter for help, but Peter only shrugged. 

 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Something that will force Scott to act like a proper alpha and sound the alarm for all his betas. Then through the miracle of teamwork they’ll solve all their — wow, even I’m not buying it,” he sighed, and deflated into the couch. 

 

“It might not solve all their problems,” Peter agreed, “but it might break them out of their complacency, at least.” 

 

They both looked at Chris. He sighed. “Fine, all right. I’ll see what’s on the horizon. But you both better be on backup,” he pointed a finger at them menacingly. “I’m not having these idiots die now just because they’ve gone soft.”

 

“Scout’s honor,” Stiles grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Chris would still be dashing, even with a bunch of scars. Have you not seen that gifset of him shooting over the side of a car?? He's a danger hottie.
> 
> And you didn’t think these fools would leave BH without an intricate plan in place, did you?!


	5. The Jogging Suit

“Stiles, dear, come over here,” Peter called to him, staring into the front window of a shop. They had been walking down the main street of Beacon Hills (keeping a wary eye for familiar faces, though nobody was paying them much attention), when Stiles had gotten a text and halted on the sidewalk to respond to it. 

 

He finished his message before going over to see what it was. “What’s—no. No, no no.” He pushed Peter away from the window, urging him down the sidewalk. 

 

“But Laura Jane is quite musical, presumably there’s some talent in the family,” he reasoned, eye still fixated on the antique violin in the display. “Imagine being on a rooftop back home, me serenading you, nude, obviously—“

 

“Imagine me, killing you with a violin, turning your carbon into diamonds and gifting them to Bathory for her collection,” Stiles put himself between Peter and the shop, cutting off his line of sight. 

 

It worked pretty well. “You’re so creative when you’re threatening me,” Peter purred, pulling Stiles in for a quick kiss. “Who’s on the phone?”

 

Stiles glanced around quickly first. “Chris said they’ve got something. They haven’t ID’d it yet though, so still waiting to find out.”

 

Peter took Stiles’ hand as they walked further down the street. “That was rather quick, wasn’t it?”

 

“You’ve seen the reports,” Stiles shrugged. “Actually, I know you never read them. _I’ve_ seen the reports, and there’s always something trying to get in here. It’s the nemeton, I’m sure of it.”

 

Peter was inclined to agree. But there wasn’t much that could be done about it; they couldn’t very well destroy the tree, since it would probably destroy them first. And in a cosmic sort of way, he couldn’t hold too much of a grudge against the thing — it was probably indirectly responsible for bringing the two of them together, in a way. “I’m sure you’re formulating a plan already,” he guessed.

 

“If we can get the hunters to herd whatever it is into a specific area, we can get Scott and Derek there ourselves,” Stiles explained. “That way, if things go pear-shaped, we’re already there and don’t need any sort of element of surprise.” 

 

Peter nodded. “But how are you going to bring in any weapons without making it obvious what we’re doing?”

 

Stiles looked away into a bakery window, as if it were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. “I just won’t bring any,” he said, before quickly adding, “do you think we should get Laura and Tal a cake? Is that what uncles do?”

 

“Stiles,” Peter said sternly, forcing him to turn away from the shop. “You’re not suggesting what it sounds like, are you?”

 

“Of course not,” Stiles waved the idea away. “It won’t come to that, I’m sure.”

 

That did nothing to assuage Peter. “We’ve discussed this, darling,” he said, drawing Stiles away from the bakery and back in the direction of the car. Stiles knew what was coming, as Peter always laid on the pet names when he was doing something he knew Stiles would not like. “If you’re interested in exploring other aspects of your foxy situation, we can look into it,” he continued, smiling pleasantly at an elderly couple as they walked by. “But you said it made you uneasy just thinking about it.”

 

“It does,” Stiles said quickly. He didn’t have to tell Peter he still had nightmares about the nogitsune, sometimes. He already knew. “But it’s always sort of an ace up the sleeve, right? A potential ace. Schrödinger’s ace.”

 

Peter sighed. “Ah, yes. That’s very comforting. I feel infinitely better about your idea now.” They reached the car and climbed inside, Peter taking the wheel this time. “This is certainly not going to irk my instinct to hide you from the world in the highest tower I can find.” 

 

Stiles reached over and laced their hands together as they pulled away from the curb. “You’re an excellent protector. And if you’re very good, I will consider — and I can’t emphasize enough how this is only a consideration — allowing you to get a guitar, or something. Something less screechy than a violin.”

 

Peter was silent for a moment. “A classical guitar?”

 

“Naturally,” Stiles agreed. “And we can go to Spain, and you can serenade me. In the nude.”

 

That evening, in the middle of dinner, Chris texted Stiles again. Peter saw him send an instructive look across the table to him, and while he would have preferred to ask what the creature in question was first, he still turned to Derek. “If you’re not busy this evening, could we go for a run through the preserve?”

 

Derek looked thoughtfully into the distance, as if recalling a list of things he meant to do. “I guess so,” he finally agreed, “though I’m kind of tired from work. You’ll have to go easy on me.” He chuckled to himself, like he was enjoying being older than Peter. “Laura, why don’t you join us?”

 

Peter shot Stiles a look, and Stiles only looked bewildered for a second. “Okay,” Laura said after considering it. She hadn’t said much of anything during dinner, but Peter had long suspected that she was more in-tune with her wolf side than her human one. 

 

“Mom, can we go to the shooting range if they’re doing that? Pleeease?” Talia begged Braeden, who seemed happy to oblige her. 

 

“But only if you actually listen to my advice this time,” she bargained. 

 

Stiles focused on his dinner as he thought this through. It was going to be difficult to navigate an excuse for his own presence, but now he had to take a teenaged werewolf into consideration. It wouldn’t be the first time, he sighed. “I’ll come with you guys,” he volunteered to Derek and Peter, as if he had just thought of it. “It’d be nice to stretch my legs.”

 

“You sure you’ll be able to keep up?” Derek asked. 

 

Stiles scoffed. “Totally. I’ll call up Scotty, get him to come along. I’ll outrun all you old dudes.”

 

He had anticipated some difficulty in coordinating everything with Chris and the hunters. He had also anticipated some trouble getting Scott to come out with them. He had not anticipated Scott bringing his son along, too. “This is going great,” he said sarcastically to Peter as they all made their way into the preserve. Evan was already trailing after Laura devotedly.

 

“You can call it off,” Peter reminded him, glancing at the phone clutched in his hand. When Stiles only glared at him, he jogged ahead to catch up with Derek. “Looking good, nephew,” he called out. “A very coordinated ensemble. Lululemon, is it?”

 

Derek raised a hand to confirm the logo on his wristband. “Cool, right?”

 

Laura groaned as if the world itself were conspiring against her. She shifted partway and dashed ahead of everyone else into the woods, Evan following closely after her. 

 

Stiles sent off a final text to Chris and jogged after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the idea of Derek as a cool dad even once seemed possible to you, please reconsider your choices. I mean, come on. He would totally be the dadliest dad to ever dad. As Zephie pointed out he kind of turned into his actor here but honestly we should have all seen that coming.
> 
> I wonder what the hunters found on the borders??


	6. The Knife

Stiles was a little bit proud of his ability to herd people without them realizing that was what he was doing. It was an exercise in practiced clumsiness, intentionally wandering away from the group until they noticed and came after him, and loudly observing things he needed to explore in the distance. 

 

Chris has tracked an omega werewolf coming from the north, and had it likewise herded to a big clearing in the preserve, a comfortable distance from Derek’s house. He had warned Stiles that the wolf was completely feral, and if Scott attempted his old tactic of trying to reason with it first, it would go poorly. _They better take it down quick_ , was Argent’s advice. _My hunters might have riled it up a little._

 

Peter kept talking to Derek, distracting him as he made sure they followed Stiles’ lead. Scott was mostly silent, but he tagged along closer to Stiles than anyone else, so that seemed like a sort of victory. 

 

Eventually they came to a treeline, the field up ahead of them. “We don’t usually go further than this,” Derek told them, Evan and Laura going ahead to romp in the open space. “Probably should head back, now.”

 

“This is as far as you patrol?” Peter stared at him. “Derek, this isn’t even a mile out from your house.”

 

Derek just laughed, going to stretch out his hamstrings against a tree. “I don’t have much time for patrolling these days,” he said. “Scott, do you still go out?”

 

The alpha shrugged, drinking from the water bottle he had brought with him. “I took the kids around the preserve, maybe…two months ago? Whenever spring break was.”

 

“Presumably it’s in the spring,” Stiles said flatly, fanning himself. It was still Californian hot, even in the late evening, and he had on a bulky hoodie that seemed to be an abysmal fashion choice.

 

“Hey Dad, what’s that?” they heard Laura call over to them. Derek rounded the trees to see what she was pointing at out in the field. 

 

He squinted, before shouting at his daughter, panicked. “Laura, get back here! Quickly!”

 

She and Evan both ran back into the woods behind their fathers, who were half shifted as they saw the omega sprinting towards them from across the field. Peter shuffled Stiles off to the side, getting out of their way. Stiles took his arm in his grip, suddenly full of adrenaline and excitement, watching Derek and Scott bare their fangs at the newcomer, who ran even closer.

 

_This_ was nostalgia. _This_ was something achingly familiar, a momentary relic of the days when they were all young together. Peter gave him a sidelong glance, moving slightly to put Stiles behind him.

 

Derek ran out to meet the wolf first. He was still more physically imposing than Scott, and when the omega struck at him he didn’t fall back, but grunted loudly at the claws stuck in his arm. Derek growled, throwing himself forward again, but the scent of his blood was on the air.

 

Quite quickly, things started going poorly. Laura yelled at the omega and ran forward in a valiant expression of bravery towards her father. Scott yelled at her, running out to get in front of her. And Evan, bouncing nervously on the soles of his feet, decided to sprint out to protect Scott. 

 

“This…was a bad idea,” Stiles realized. Peter gave him a no-shit expression, and they ran over before anyone else could get hurt. 

 

Peter distracted the omega away from the others, running between him and Derek and clipping him in the side so he spun around, facing the field again. He snarled, and hurled itself at him, but Peter was much quicker and sidestepped the attack. 

 

Derek and Scott had shuffled the kids out of the way, so when Stiles saw the arrow lodged in the omega’s back, he figured they didn’t. He’d bet nine ways to Sunday that one of the hunters had done it, and no doubt the omega was slowly being poisoned. He sighed. This was, technically, what he had asked for.

 

Stiles pulled out a hunting knife from inside his hoodie where it had been stowed. Peter was just playing with the omega, leading him around as the wolf seemed to get clumsier by the minute. But there was no sense in drawing things out, and Stiles was nothing if not a precise shot. He approached carefully and when Peter presented the opportunity, he rammed the knife into the omega’s back. He went still from the well-placed shot, and from the additional wolfsbane now in his system.

 

When the omega fell, Stiles sighed. Peter came around to check on him, though it was unnecessary. Stiles stood patiently as he was scented, listening to the others fuss over Derek’s injury and each other. 

 

“They killed a wolf,” he heard Evan say in a shaky voice. Stiles glanced at the omega, who had shifted back to human form in his quick death. “That was a werewolf like us, right? Why did we kill it?”

 

“What do you mean, this was a bad idea?” Scott rounded on Stiles and demanded, not knowing how to explain what had happened to his son. Everyone was determined to be fine from the encounter, so he could turn entirely on Stiles. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

 

Stiles took a step backwards. Peter was behind him. “Well, kind of, yeah. I knew there was an omega in the preserve.” 

 

Scott’s mouth hung open in astonishment, while Derek was just furious. “And you let us bring the kids out here? What the fuck, Stiles,” Scott stared at him, not even checking his language around his son. “Have you completely lost touch with reality? Do you not realize how dangerous this was?”

 

Stiles, for once, didn’t know what to say. Derek rounded up Laura and Evan, marching them back in the direction of home. “This is supposed to be your job,” he finally said to Scott, making him halt as he left, too. “You’re the alpha, you’re supposed to protect your territory.”

 

“ _They’re_ my territory!” Scott shouted at him, gesturing ahead at Derek and the kids. He seemed to deflate a little, and only shook his head before chasing after them, not saying anything else to Stiles or Peter. 

 

Peter glanced at the mangled omega corpse on the ground a few feet away. “I suppose you brought some matches,” he thought out loud, before stepping up to give Stiles a kiss on the temple. “I’ll go find some firewood.”

 

They burned the corpse in relative silence. Peter didn’t want to break Stiles’ train of thought, and it seemed like a particularly long one. It wasn’t until they were walking back slowly that he spoke. “Do you think this was a bad idea?”

 

“You want to know my moral opinion on something?” Peter feigned shock. “I’m delighted to be consulted.”

 

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “I get it,” he said quietly. “I fucked up by letting the kids come along. I should have put a stop to it then. But, you know…” he trailed off.

 

“It really should be Scott’s job,” Peter finished for him. Stiles nodded. 

 

“He didn’t even smell the wolfsbane on me,” he sighed. 

 

Nobody was waiting up for them when they came back to the house after dark. Peter used his key to let them inside and they crept upstairs to bed in silence. 

 

The next day was Laura and Talia’s graduation. Derek had clearly shared the events of the previous evening with everyone, given the cold reception Stiles and Peter received. Still, they weren’t uninvited from the ceremony, and Talia at least didn’t seem completely adverse to talking to them. 

 

“It’s a big graduating class,” she warned, listing a number of her classmates to them as they walked up to the high school in their formal wear. Again, the sweltering heat made it feel infinitely impractical. 

 

Stiles recognized a lot of surnames from Talia’s friends. He wasn’t surprised that many of the classmates he knew had stuck around Beacon Hills to start families. But it gave an excellent excuse for them to avoid sitting in the audience with Derek and Braeden, hovering near the back of the auditorium instead. 

 

Laura had been even quieter than usual all day, sticking close to her parents even as they found seats for the ceremony. Peter saw Derek duck down and say something to her quietly, before she begrudgingly went to stand with her graduating class instead of with them. 

 

After the graduates had walked across the stage, and a speaker was wrapping up the event, Stiles leaned into Peter to whisper, “Scott still hasn’t replied to any of my messages.”

 

This did not surprise Peter in the least. “Perhaps we ought to look into departing flights, dear.”

 

As if on cue, the auditorium burst into a rousing final applause. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine there would be a lot — and I mean a lot — of unexpected consequences of suddenly realizing you’re immortal. Without an impending fear of death I think a lot of personality traits might become overblown, as we definitely have seen for Peter. But I think it’s true for Stiles in some much more subtle ways. Getting older sucks, you kind of long for the good and the bad of the past. Something I've been thinking about a lot lately, anyways. Maybe that's why I wrote this.


	7. The Curtains

Peter frowned over his suitcase. Stiles had packed it in the first place, and somehow managed to fit everything in, but he was having trouble replicating the process. There was still a stack of shirts he had yet to fit in to the bag. If he had brought his white linen shirts (he definitely had more than one, not that Stiles had discovered it yet) he wouldn’t have been having this problem. They would pack down flat quite easily.

 

Stiles came into the room with a pair of shoes that he had left by the front door. “Any idea what you want to do in LA for a few days?” he asked, nudging Peter aside to take over the packing. 

 

They had three nights booked in a hotel of Peter’s choosing in Los Angeles before their new flight would take them back to Italy. “We ought to see the art galleries,” he suggested, going to close the window blinds. The duvet was already somewhat faded on the edge that the sunlight hit, and he refused to contribute further to the process. “I know someone at UCLA who could get us into their private collections, as well.”

 

“Sounds fun.” Peter knew that Stiles wouldn’t actually hate such an outing, but he was troubled over leaving Beacon Hills so soon. They had yet to inform anyone that they were leaving early, but they expected little protest from anyone. 

 

“When are you going to see Scott?” he asked. 

 

Stiles let out a long breath, leaning on the top of the suitcase to close it. “I should go now. I’m kind of putting it off.”

 

Peter ran a hand over the back of his neck comfortingly. “Just say the word and I’ll come with you.”

 

Stiles shook his head. “No, I’ve got to do this. But if it goes badly, don’t make fun of me for running back here with my tail between my legs.”

 

“I would never,” Peter promised, moving their suitcases off the bed and over by the door. “I’ll be here waiting. We can always come back in, say, twenty years for Scott’s retirement party. Or never, that’s also an attractive option.”

 

Stiles had called his father and discussed the other night with him already. The old sheriff had given him an earful, but eventually revealed that Scott would be at his house that evening, if Stiles wanted to try and reconcile with him. 

 

Knocking on the front door of his own old house was a strange sensation. Seeing Scott answer it was even stranger. “Hey man,” Stiles said, before the other had a chance to say a word. “Can we talk?”

 

The backyard seemed neutral enough territory. Stiles had been inside the house when he had first stopped by to see his father a few days earlier, and the place looked completely different despite being the same house he knew so well. It was a little disconcerting, really. “So, I’m heading back to Italy in a couple days,” Stiles said as he sat on the old weatherbeaten picnic table, the grass growing tall around it. Someone should have been doing his old chores, he thought. He’d have to tell his dad to get Evan to do it. 

 

Scott nodded, standing with his arms folded. “Okay,” was all he said.

 

Stiles sighed. “Listen, dude, I don’t want to beat around the bush. I’m sorry for what happened. I was dumb and kind of forgot that you’re, you know…a parent,” he gestured at Scott, and the outfit he had on. He probably hadn’t changed from work, and still wore a button-down shirt and trousers with a leather belt. 

 

“I grew up,” Scott shrugged. “It happens.”

 

“Yeah, and I get that. I did too, though you might have a hard time believing it,” he sighed, looking down at his hands. “It just means something different for me, now.”

 

Scott glanced at him, while Stiles was looking away. “Sounds like something Kira said,” he muttered, kicking at the grass a little. 

 

That was something Stiles wanted to talk about too, but now didn’t seem quite the right time. “I think this one’s kind of on you, buddy.”

 

He only looked confused, so Stiles continued on. “I mean, you look at me — and probably Kira too, right? — and think that we’re exactly the same, that nothing’s changed for us. But we’re so different, you have no idea. Not just different like changed over time,” he added, to be clear. “But we’re literally different species. Sort of. I don’t really know how to explain it,” Stiles sighed. Maybe it would have been better to bring Peter along after all. He was always more eloquent, if a bit of an ass. 

 

Scott didn’t say anything for a moment, and Stiles thought he was considering walking away, but instead he came and sat on the bench beside him. “I never…” he started, and stopped. “I didn’t think the differences were such a big deal, before this.”

 

Stiles nodded, looking up at the old house. He could see curtains drawn in the window of his old bedroom, though they were white, and he knew the ones he used to have were dark blue. “They kind of are, dude. But you can’t change people. You’ve just gotta, like, accept them. All the parts of them, even the shitty ones.”

 

Scott almost laughed. “Is that what you told yourself about Peter?”

 

He received a light shove from Stiles. “C’mon, man, you’re not still weirded out by that, are you?”

 

“I’ll always be weirded out by that, Stiles.” Scott let out a long breath, picking at a splintered edge of the picnic table. “But I get it, I guess. Not the Peter thing,” he hurried to add, “but the other stuff. An alpha shouldn’t freak out over feeling left out.”

 

“Yeah, fuck that,” Stiles frowned. “You should feel however you wanna feel. But, if you do want to have a how-to-Alpha talk, I may or may not have several suggestions. Small ones. More like footnotes, really.”

 

Scott rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll hear them out. But just to be clear,” he pointed a finger at Stiles, making sure he was really listening. “What you did still totally sucked. You’re going to have to talk to Evan, he had a nightmare about it last night.” He paused, remembering something. “Wait, when did you say you’re going home?”

 

“Couple of days from now.”

 

Standing up from the picnic table, Scott took his phone out of his pocket. “Okay. Mom and Dad are both home tomorrow. If I take the day off work, and get Evan out of school, want to have a family day? If you’re not busy or anything,” he added quickly.

 

Stiles felt his heartstrings tug when Scott called Melissa and John their parents, but he damn near teared up at the rest. “Of course, dude. That would be amazing.” He stood up and hugged his brother before he could start making calls. 

 

Peter didn’t seem entirely shocked when Stiles told him what happened, though he did look morosely at the suitcases they would have to reopen. “As long as you’re happy,” he said, when Stiles asked if he would mind staying one more night. 

 

“Yeah. I need to do this,” Stiles said firmly. “Besides, we still have to bring Chris his weapons back. Oh, maybe you can do that tomorrow.”

 

Peter was sitting at the top of the bed with a book in hand, and a glass of wine on the side table. He had found something decent to drink in Derek’s cellar, though he had been hoping to be long gone before his nephew found out it was missing. “I don’t particularly fancy spending the entire day with Argent,” he replied evenly. 

 

Stiles climbed up to sit beside him. “I mean, obviously you can spend the day with all of us. Have you talked to Derek yet, though?”

 

He had somehow managed to avoid it. Well, it wasn’t a mystery how, really — he had just stayed in the guest room all evening. “He’ll be at work in the morning,” Peter recalled. “But the girls will be home.”

 

“There you go,” Stiles decided for him. “Bond with your nieces. Show them the photos of your paintings on your phone, that’ll make them like you. It really mellows down all of this,” he waved vaguely at all of Peter, “knowing that you’re a shitty artist.”

 

“I thought you liked my paintings,” Peter pretended to be offended. Stiles took the wine glass from his hand and sipped from it. “Besides, it’s not about what you create, it’s about the _process_. Which is just as much about the environment one works in as it is the art.”

 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Stiles sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought immortality was a pretty cool concept when I started this but now it's fucking me up in all kinds of ways. Scott's a dork but I feel really bad for him now.


	8. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to combine the last two chapters as they were short. Thanks to everyone who's been reading & so supportive of this verse. I'm looking forward to writing more.

Stiles disappeared early in the day to participate in Stilinski-McCall bonding activities. Peter was more than happy to let him go, and to sleep in till the late morning. He struggled with the time change more than Stiles did anytime they travelled, and it seemed pointless to try and adapt to Californian time when they would be back home again soon.

 

When he did emerge downstairs, both Laura and Talia were in the living room. Talia had a laptop out, but her sister had her nose in a paperback copy of _As The Sun Rises_. “Hemingway,” he remarked, sitting across the room from them both. “Excellent writer. Terrible misogynist, but I suppose nobody’s perfect.”

 

Laura looked over the top of the book at him. She sighed, glanced at the page again, before bookmarking it and closing the cover. “I guess you’re the expert in character flaws,” she said mildly. 

 

Peter smiled at her. “I’m glad my reputation hasn’t diminished in my absence. But I could recommend some other authors, if you were somehow interested. Could introduce you to some, too.” 

 

“Dad says we’re not supposed to take anything you say seriously,” Talia said, not looking away from her laptop. 

 

“That is because like most old men, your father lost has lost his sense of fun.” 

 

“Does your idea of fun usually involve killing other werewolves?” Laura stared at him, not flinching when he laughed.

 

“Not so much these days. Unfortunately, that is an unavoidable part of life for us.” 

 

Peter prided himself on usually being able to see far enough down the line to expect things before they happened. The immortality situation, he hadn’t anticipated, but it was just one detail of his elaborate resurrection that had otherwise gone as well as expected. He had foreseen that the steps taken by Stiles and himself in securing Beacon Hills would let the people there live in peace. He had not expected that the pack’s children would become so sheltered to violence that taking out a single omega would cause such waves. His mistake, really. “Beacon Hills is a safe place,” he told them, seeing he had their attention. “I have made sure of that. However, I can’t fix the entire world, and now that you’ve both graduated I presume you’re going to be seeing more of it. Perhaps some advice is in order.”

 

He settled back into his seat, folding his hands over his stomach and considered what piece of wisdom he might gift them with. Stiles had suggested giving them cash as a graduation present. This seemed much more valuable. “There’s this thing about power,” he decided to tell them. “We werewolves understand it intrinsically; our loyalty to our alphas is instinctual. This goes for you too, Talia,” he said, seeing her look away. “It’s in your blood, human or not. Understanding power is important. Respecting power is critical. And having it, well, there’s nothing else quite like it.”

 

He heard the front door open somewhere else in the house. Derek must have been home for lunch. He continued on anyways. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Werewolf power structures give us society. And society is what separates us from the beasts — politics, hierarchies, the arts — and speaking of which, remind me to show you some photos on my phone after,” he added. “But to put it bluntly, wolves that fall out of this society, like that omega, experience lives that are often… as Hobbes described it, ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’. We survive and we thrive when we recognize the importance of pack, and I’ve never had much tolerance for those who undervalue that.”

 

Peter knew that Derek had told them about what had happened to his sister Laura. They had had a long phone call both before and after the fact. Derek himself hadn’t quite understood all the nuances of the situation until that conversation, Peter having put it off as best he could. But they understood each other now, he hoped. Perhaps his nieces would come to understand, too.

 

Derek came and stood in the doorway of the living room, seeing them all sitting together. “What’s he telling you now?” he sighed, looking wearily at Peter.

 

“I’m nearly finished, nephew,” Peter waved him into silence. “To conclude, there are few creatures in existence that live by any code similar to that of werewolves. Very few supernatural creatures, and hardly any humans. You’d be wise to remember it when you start fraternizing with them in the real world.”

 

Talia had closed her laptop to listen to him, and as he finished, both girls stared at Peter. It wasn’t in awe, nor in derision. More like they were attempting to reconcile his words with their own world views. “I didn’t realize you’d become such a philosopher in your old age,” Derek deadpanned to break up the silence. “I brought lunch in, there’s a bag of thai food in the kitchen.”

 

Laura and Talia scurried away, leaving their father with Peter. 

 

Derek took a seat on one of the vacated couches. “They’re not usually big on listening to advice,” he admitted.

 

“Neither were you,” Peter reminded him. “I daresay neither was I. But we turned out fine, relatively speaking.”

 

“Relatively,” Derek smiled. He had his hands folded in front of him, leaning on his knees. Peter was reminded starkly of his parents, just then. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other night. I just didn’t know…I wasn’t expecting to run into trouble in the preserve. It’s been…”

 

“Ten years?” Peter guessed. Derek furrowed his brow, looking at him. “I believe it’s time I came clean about something,” he decided, and told Derek about Chris Argent.

 

It had been a plan in the works for months before he and Stiles left California, to be honest. Neither of them were comfortable with the prospect of leaving the pack behind at such a distance, despite technically ostracizing themselves from said pack by leaving. So they had, after many theoretical plans, convinced Chris Argent to come out of hiding in France to establish a collective of selected beings to secure Beacon county. It had all been very covert, of course, and Peter had financed the venture himself. “I was very responsible with my insurance payouts,” he explained vaguely, not interested in giving Derek more details than he needed. 

 

He let the information process, as Derek seemed to need a moment to absorb it all. “Peter,” he finally said, his voice quiet and serious. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

 

Peter was flattered, but it hadn’t been what he was aiming for. “We were merely protecting our mutual interests,” he brushed it off, but Derek wouldn’t let him.

 

“No, you idiot. It makes sense now that I know… Peter, you let me raise a family in peace.” He sounded almost shocked at the fact that he had done so. As if he had been driving his minivan full of children around completely unaware. “You have no idea what that means to me. And I didn’t even realize you had done it.”

 

Peter received his fourth unexpected hug of the trip, patting Derek gingerly on the back. “Now, now. You make it sound as if it’s all about you. Do you really expect I’m _that_ scheming?”

 

“Yes,” Derek said into his shoulder. “Obviously.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles and Peter ended up only keeping their reservation in Los Angeles for one night. They stood on Derek’s driveway, having already said their goodbyes to everyone else. Stiles had promised to return more frequently. Peter hadn’t promised anything, but they knew he would hardly sit patiently and wait for Stiles at home.

 

“I’m going to warn you now,” Derek said to them as he helped put their last bag into the trunk of the car. He had taken the rental for a drive twice. He had said it didn’t feel quite as safe as his van did, and Stiles had laughed him out of the car. “Talia’s been talking about wanting to do a semester abroad while she’s at college. Obviously we support the idea, but I saw her looking up maps of Italy, so… prepare yourselves, I guess.”

 

“Oh man, that would be so cool,” Stiles was already thinking of all the things they could do together. “Can they both come? When would that be, next year? Can they come for the summer instead?”

 

Derek began to look a little alarmed, so Peter put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder to reign him in. “We’d be delighted to have them,” he said simply. 

 

Their goodbyes weren’t drawn out excessively. “One of the things you get better at,” Stiles mused as they drove towards the city, “when you live as long as we do — goodbyes. Wouldn’t have expected that, but it’s true.”

 

He leaned in towards Peter to take a photo of them both, posting it on his Instagram. Only a few minutes later he laughed, looking at the screen. “I totally forgot to post anything online while we were away,” he realized, seeing the comments on the photo. “Nobody knew we were in California, we have a lot of contacts who are pissed we didn’t come see them.”

 

Peter glanced at him, trying to gauge whether that meant Stiles wanted to stay longer. “This was supposed to be about family,” Peter reminded him.

 

“Oh, absolutely. We checked that box. Let’s go home.” Stiles smiled and put his phone away. 

 

They managed a quick visit to The Getty before their flight the following day, where Peter tried and failed to convince a rather enraptured curator to make an offer on some of his art pieces for a collection. When they arrived back at their apartment in Rome, the sun was just setting and the rooms were filled with orange light. 

 

Stiles wasted no time in going around and throwing all the windows open, the sound of the city outside trickling in. He paused on the balcony, looking down at the pedestrians below and at the hills rising in the distance. “Stiles?” Peter called from inside. “What’s this?”

 

He stuck his head back inside. Peter was standing in front of a large paper-wrapped package on the dining room table. “No idea,” he said, going back to lean on the railing. “Maybe you should open it.”

 

Peter gave him a suspicious look before tearing away the paper delicately. There were no unusual scents in the apartment, meaning it could only have been a vampire that delivered it. 

 

Inside was a classical guitar, apparently of a French make. He peered inside to see Robert Bouchet’s label inside. Peter knew exactly what it was, rare antiques being a passion of his, naturally. 

 

He left it on the table and went out to the balcony, kissing Stiles senseless until they heard catcalls from onlookers on the street below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s so many feelings, how did this even happen? I just want to fix this stupid broken canon family. I wanted Peter to betray himself as the pretentious old man he actually is (/always has been) by lecturing teenagers in the end. Did it work?
> 
> I've got lots of ideas for future one-shots & chaptered fics that I might write in this verse. But if there's any particular time frame/event/whatever you'd like to see let me know!
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading. I'll be over on [tumblr](http://oriolevent.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat!


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